


Once Upon A Time: King of the North Wind

by The_Muse



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Crossover, F/M, Flashbacks, Land of Untold Stories (Once Upon a Time), Limits to True Loves Kiss, M/M, Season 4 Teen Wolf alternate, Teacher Derek Hale, Wishverse (Once Upon a Time), enchanted forest flashbacks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:20:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25398316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Muse/pseuds/The_Muse
Summary: In a sleepy small town in Maine a curse is broken and one man, who never belonged,         tries to find his way back home and seemingly, to a time that has already passed.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Prince Charming | David Nolan/Snow White | Mary Margaret Blanchard
Comments: 5
Kudos: 22





	1. Introduction; A Touch of Something New

Byron Chaney has worked in Storybrooke elementary school for as long as he can remember though he doesn’t remember much. Despite this, like all the people of Storybrooke he doesn’t acknowledge the lack of remembrance and lives his day to day life as he always has. He wakes up, gets ready for the day, pops into Granny’s for a coffee and bagel to go and walks the three blocks to the school. Living so close by he has never seen the need to buy a car, in a town as small as this one there’s really no need if you live in the right place and Byron lived in a choice spot, four blocks from the school, one block from Granny’s and five or so from the general store where he picked up his groceries. The clinic is a hop skip and a throw, though he’s hardly ever been inside, a naturally healthy man who never seems to catch even a sniffle or so he imagines but he doesn’t remember much nor does he try, living his life in perpetual fog.

He loves his students and is pleased by their wide eyed attention and their smiles, coming to class is like coming home and teaching them soothes the loneliness in his heart when he returns to his small apartment over the bakery. He doesn’t complain about his work, he never wakes up and groans. He wakes up and goes through his routine happily and would have continued to live happily if not for... _what was it?_

Well, Byron cannot really remember _what_ it is, that thing in the back of his mind, the fog heavy and his soul resigned to it. Mary Margaret he says a hello to in the halls but he doesn’t stop to chat, he doesn’t know why, he just never does, seeing the pretty short haired teacher, giving her a smile, righting his glasses and hurrying to his fourth grade class. There are things to do, papers to grade, children to smile to and to encourage.

But the _what was it_ is still there in the back of his mind trying to wake him with its oppressiveness. An oppressiveness that he pushes back when the bell rings and the children rush into his classrooms and to their desks, some wide awake others not so much and he puts on his best smile and begins his day, reminded by the kids for what seems like the millionth time of the crumbs on his shirt and the small coffee stain on his tie. It’s always the same, maybe? He can’t be sure.

* * *

”Did you hear about the sheriff?” Mrs. Pond, a fellow fourth grade teacher says to him, leaning against the hall and talking quietly as the students pass. 

Byron leans closer.

”What happened.”

”He died.” She says. “Can you believe? Such a nice young man too.”

Byron has never known anyone that has died, he thinks, he can’t quite recall. Maybe his mother or father? He wouldn’t know he’s never had a family, a ward to the orphanage in Storybrooke, raised by kind nuns and given as much love as he could have been, given the circumstances. He came out alright, never wondered about his parents, never wondered why they’d given him up or if they were alive or dead. He didn’t know. The sheriff dying must be the first death he’s known and its a distant one, even in a small town like Storybrooke where everyone knows everyone its a distant knowing. He’s said maybe a dozen words to the sheriff in passing, always the same and always in the mornings when Byron came for his breakfast and always in the late evenings when he would come in for his dinner, a kind nod, a hello and goodnight.

”What happened?”

”They’re saying a heart attack.”

* * *

Emma, the woman who came and seemed to bring nothing but hectic change with her seems to shine wherever she goes and Byron cannot keep his eyes off of her. She reminds him of someone but he can’t put his finger on it. Henry maybe, he used to think because by now everyone in town knew the connection to the blonde and the mayor’s son but that wasn’t quite it. She reminded him of someone else.

”Good morning Bryon.” Mary Margaret says taking a seat at the counter right beside him. Unusual, he thinks, she never sits at the counter she always sits at the low tables towards the middle of the diner and always reads the same book, she orders tea and a scone-never apple, she hates apples.

How does he know that?

“Morning.” He says and gives her a small smile. “Late night?”

”You could say that.” She says. “New roommate.” Mary Margaret orders her usual. “I guess I’m not used to having someone at home.”

”Miss Swan?”

”Yes.”

He goes back to his meal, his routine broken but he doesn’t mind, the change feels wrong but good. Things are changing, he reminds himself, someone has died, someone new has come, there are whispers of drama and new gossip and things are...

\- Things are.

”Stubble.”

”Excuse me?” He turns back to Mary Margaret who flushes just a bit. “I’m sorry I didn’t hear you.”

”Stubble,” She repeats. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without a close shave.”

”Oh?” He rubs at his stubble jaw and grins a bit. “Really? No this isn’t the first time. Can’t be. I prefer this.”

”I’m serious, I’ve never seen you with hair on your face. Unless...do you let it grow out in the summer?”

”Maybe? I guess.”

”Well I’ve never noticed till now.”

”Huh...does it look bad?”

”No. No it looks right on you. Better.” She says. “You know, its almost like seeing you for the first time.”

He doesn’t understand but understands and feels a little charmed by her. This is the first time they’ve really talked, though that can’t be. They’ve worked in the same school for as long as he can remember, they’ve said hello and goodbye, they’ve nodded in the hallways. But if he tries to think of any other conversations that they’ve had well, Byron cannot think of one. The fog is heavy and deep.

”Mary Margaret?”

”Yes?” She puts down her mug and gives him her attention again, the green of her cardigan is deep and makes the greens of her eyes pop, the rose of her lips and cheeks seem deeper against her pale skin. 

“Is...” He starts, stops and clears his throat. “Is this the first time we’ve ever talked?”

Her black brows furrow as she gives him a peculiar look.

”No, we’ve talked before of course we have.”

”Have we?“ He turns to the side in his seat to regard her better, rests his elbow on the counter, his palm against his stubbled chin. “I can’t remember a single conversation with you before this. Isn’t that strange?”

Her mouth opens in a perfect little o and her brows rise, she then gives him a small sad laugh.

”You know, last time I talked to Graham, he sounded a lot like you. Asking me to remember things.”

”Oh? Like what?”

She turns towards him in her stool seat, both their meals forgotten, hands clasped. 

“He asked me to remember the day that we met and for the life of me I couldn’t remember.”

Byron laughs when she laughs but wonders, pushes against the fog and realizes that he can’t remember ever meeting _anyone_ in Storybrooke at all.


	2. Dreamy

“You dont have to do this.”

”I want to.” Byron lifts a small crate and settles it into the backseat of Mary Margarets car, small smile on his face that doesn’t reach his eyes. No one wants to help and he doesn’t have the time to volunteer but this he can do, at the very least. “I needed candles anyway.”

”But this many?” She gestures to her closed trunk. “I doubt that anyone needs this many.”

”Well I do.” He says and leans against the back. “Listen, I get that its tough, no one wants to give you the benefit of the doubt-”

”Well why should they?” Mary Margaret hugs her binder to her chest, a plume of white cold mist rises from her small red mouth, the cold turning her nose pink. “I have made terrible mistakes.”

”So has everyone.” Byron says. “Doesn’t mean that you’re a bad person you just fell in love with someone and the timing,” He says a little distantly. “-timing is a son of a bitch sometimes. It’s never right for some people.”

Mary Margaret regards Byron a little more closely, sees the distant look in his multicolored green eyes and hears the way he sighs, almost feels how deeply he does it like he’s remembering something. “Have you ever been in love?” She asks and wonders who it was that put that look on his face that made him sigh so deeply with hurt.

He shakes his head just slightly and the light comes back to his eyes.

”I’ve never been in love.” He says. “We should get going I want to get these home before dark.” He rounds the side of the car and climbs in, looks impatiently at Mary Margaret through the glass and giving her a grin when she climbs in.

”Are you not going to the festival?” 

“Not my scene.” He says.

* * *

’You did this for Stiles.’ Lydia leans against the glass of Derek’s loft window, regards him shrewdly as he paces back and forth. Derek hadn’t imagined having any kind of conversation with Lydia Martin after it was all said and done, he’d been packing, determined to get away from Beacon Hills and everything he couldn’t have, who he shouldn’t want. It had been a hell of a few weeks, not sleeping always searching and fighting and nearly dying and of course they’d won. Two losses which were nothing to him, he felt sympathy for the brother and the father left behind but Derek didn’t care enough about Aiden and Allison to mourn them, the former involved in the murder of two of his betas and the latter who had them tortured and who had been determined to murder them and him on a lie.

But now, he thinks, as Lydia stares at him like she knows something and knowing what he knows about Lydia he’s sure that she’s figured it out. Theres no denying it, he’s on his way out anyway, gone before the dust settles and anyone really misses him. Theres no reason to deny it either, his feelings, of course. He’ll lock it away, hold onto the truth and push it so far back that one day it will only be a slight ache in his heart and then he will move on, never forgetting just living in peace. Stiles has someone now, he knows that much, could smell it on him when he’d gone to the house to see him, heard the heart beats in his bedroom late at night, the girl was there and she was making Stiles whole and really, what more could Derek ask for. 

Timing, he thought, the timing was all wrong, Stiles was too young and Derek was too old, Derek was damaged and by the time he’d thought to say anything Stiles had been possessed and there was no time to talk to linger on and tell him about the feelings that Derek had developed and now Stiles was with someone else, someone who could put the pieces back together and make him whole.

’Of course I did.’ He tells Lydia and reaches for his duffle by the door. ‘He’s been a good ally, it was the least that I could do.’

’It’s more than that and you know it.’

’It really doesn’t matter anymore.’ He says to her, the door opened, duffel strap in hand, he doesn’t even turn back to look at her, doesn’t think he can handle the look of pity that he is sure is on her beautiful face but then...Derek looks back anyway, looks at her and sees the sad look and he smiles at her. ‘Keep the key, the place it paid for. If you ever need-’

‘I know.’ She interrupts and nods. ‘I _know_.’

Derek leaves and wonders how long it will take for him to forget about Stiles and about being in love with him at all.

* * *


	3. A Touch of Something New

“Well, thats new.” Byron looks up as a minute passes and the old clock’s hand ticks. That’s never happened before, he thinks, it’s always been broken.

”I cannot remember a time that this thing has worked.” He hears as he passes people on his way to the Granny’s for lunch. Saturdays are his lazy days where he wakes up on his own and lazes about in his apartment with nothing to do at all. Saturdays usually mean grading papers, not changing out of his pajamas or wearing shoes, reading a good book before he inevitably, at about three o’clock, grows tired of being by himself. He usually dresses and jogs around town, nods hello’s, goes into the flower shop Just before close time to pick out daisy’s for the small vase on his kitchen table.

Today Byron changes the routine, feels himself forcing it. He wakes up early, showers, dresses and forgoes a shave-again-and makes his way outside at nine AM. Saturday’s are slow in town the way its slow every day of the week but the difference, being outside when he’s always inside on the weekends sets his teeth on edge, though he can’t for the life of him suss out why. Thats how he notices the clock ticking, the time is different its-he checks his watch-its working.

”Mister Chaney,” He hears just behind him and Byron turns, maybe a bit too quickly, startled by the voice. His glasses nearly tumble off of his face, he grabs them, smudges them just a bit at the corner. “Having a good morning?”

Byron smiles and nods at Mister French, the old man has his hands tucked into the pockets of his thick puffy vest, always the same one. 

“I am.” He replies. “Just...noticing this.” He points at the clock. “Surprised that the mayor finally got off her ass and got this fixed.”

”Don’t let her hear you say that.” 

Byron grins. “I’m not too worried.”

”It is a nice bit of change,” Mister French says. “Next on the agenda will be the library, maybe.”

”Maybe.” Byron says and then looks back up at the clock. A lot of people, he noticed, looked up at the clock in wonder of it working. It hadn’t worked for so long that he can’t remember a time it ever did. In fact, he looks at the shuttered windows of the library and frowns, how long has the library been closed?

He asks Mister French this and the old man frowns in thought and shrugs. He can’t remember either.

”Never was much for reading so I wouldn't know.” He says to Byron. “Will I be seeing you this afternoon?”

”Absolutely.” Byron says.

”I’ll get the daisies ready for you.”

* * *

‘Daisies?’ Derek pokes at the bouquet and tries not to laugh at the look on Kira’s face as she holds them tightly to her chest. She looks ready to implode with embarrassment as she stands in Derek’s doorway and he wonders, why one Earth, is she there to begin with. ‘Are those for me?’

’Well...yes?’

’You don’t sound too sure.’ He moves back and gestures with his head. ‘Come on in.’

She steps inside, Just two steps and doesn’t take more until Derek has shut the door and, gently as he could all the while trying not to laugh, he leads her to the sofa. She takes a seat and then relinquishes the small bouquet wrapped in newspaper.

’Oh, theY really are for me.’ He’s a little astounded though he’d suspected it for a while. He wonders why Kira would give him anything. He’s has a handful of conversations that must have freaked her out just a little bit considering the outcome of it but Kira is kind and sweet in a way that reminds him of a guileless child. ‘Thanks.’

’I wanted to thank you.’ She says.

’For what?’ Derek asks, holding the daisies in his hand, examining the powdery yellow petals, soft like silk between his fingers. 

Kira cracks her knuckles and takes a breath.

’Scott would have never told me anything. Even with everything happening in my face he wouldn’t have said anything and then I might have gone crazy looking for it but then you came and...you told me what I needed to know because it was the right thing to do.’

’I did.’

’And you were nice to me.’ She says with a little smile. ‘I talked to Scott and Stiles and I asked them about you.’

’Nothing good I bet.’ He says, feeling a little awkward. He knows what they told her, knows that it couldn’t have been kind and if she’d talked to Isaac then it was even less so. He feels as awkward as she feels. 

‘No ones said thank you to you, like ever.’ She says with a tiny smile lighting up her pretty face. ‘So I wanted to be the one to say it.’

’I wasn’t the one who saved the day.’ He says dumbfounded. 

‘But you were there. After everything they told me. You didn't have to be, you didn’t have to try as hard as you did not after everything that happened but you did and you did it and would have done anything to protect us. Even me and you don't even know me. So thank you.’

He blushes, he knows he does and its been so long since he’s done it genuinely. Last time with Jennifer certainly didn’t count at all, that was certain. ‘Why the daisies?’ He asks to cut the awkward tension and Kira smiles brightly. 

‘Well, I didn’t know what your favorite were so I picked mine.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This made me smile and a little sad. In the last chapter when Byron was talking about timing being wrong and then the sad sigh Derek was there, for just a second and then he was gone. Here, he changes his routine and notices the clock, talks to Mister French and then the daisies. Even if Derek can’t be Derek he chooses daisies as Byron because they remind him of Kira. 
> 
> This one, too, was for the two commenters, Cherryboy1919 and MB02 For leaving me such lovely comments.


End file.
